The night Sofia stepped into the Cross Estate, the air itself felt expensive—like the chandeliers had learned to breathe champagne and the marble floors had been polished with the same indifference the rich used on everyone who served them—yet none of that glitter mattered to her, not really, because all she could think about was the weight in her lower back, the tightness in her belly, and the tiny, stubborn kicks reminding her that the life inside her didn’t care about crystal glasses or velvet drapes; it cared about warmth, rest, and a mother who was running out of options. Sofia was seven months pregnant, her uniform pressed to perfection by the agency that had promised “easy money, one night only, high-class event,” and her smile was a practiced mask she’d learned to wear in the years since the world stopped being kind. Twelve hours earlier, she’d arrived with the catering team while the sun still had the decency to exist; now, deep into the night, the estate was a galaxy of spotlights and laughter and perfume, and Sofia’s legs felt like they’d been replaced with glass rods that might shatter if she took one more step. “Just a little longer,” she whispered to herself as she adjusted the tray on her palm, forcing her shoulders back the way the head waitress, Maribel, had demanded. Maribel was the kind of woman who believed cruelty was the same as competence, her hair pulled so tight it looked painful, her clipboard held like a weapon. “You don’t slouch, you don’t breathe too loud, you don’t look them in the eyes unless they speak to you,” Maribel had said when Sofia first came in. “And if you’re pregnant, you don’t let that become everyone’s problem.” Sofia hadn’t argued. She couldn’t afford to. She needed the cash to pay for a room with a door that locked, prenatal vitamins, and the last two months of rent she still owed a landlord who’d started calling her “sweetheart” with the tone of a threat. A band played somewhere behind a curtain of orchids, the bass thumping like a second heartbeat, and the guests—bankers, influencers, politicians, a few celebrities whose smiles looked stapled on—moved through the rooms in shimmering waves. Every time Sofia passed, she heard fragments of conversation that sounded like another language: “a hostile takeover,” “three houses in Aspen,” “it’s nothing, darling, wire it,” and she kept her eyes on the tray, on the line between making it through the night and collapsing in front of people who would step around her like she was a spill. The event was supposedly a charity gala—something about a children’s foundation—but the center of gravity wasn’t the cause. It was him. Hunter Cross. Even if Sofia hadn’t heard the name before, she would have felt it in the way everyone angled their bodies toward the man at the top of the grand staircase as if he were a sun and they were planets pretending they chose their own orbits. Hunter stood in a black tuxedo that looked like it had been tailored around power itself, one hand on the banister, the other holding a glass he barely sipped. His face belonged on magazine covers—sharp jaw, dark eyes, that calm expression that made you wonder what it would take to crack it—and his presence had an edge that made even laughter sound cautious. Close to him, clinging like a jeweled vine, was his girlfriend, Cassandra Vale, draped in a silver gown that caught every light and threw it back like it was making fun of everyone else. People called her the queen of the city’s parties, but Sofia could see the hunger underneath the polish, the way Cassandra’s smile tightened when someone didn’t bow enough. Cassandra’s laugh rang out as she accepted compliments, and every time she looked around, her gaze moved with the entitlement of someone checking a room they believed they owned. “Careful,” whispered a young waiter named Nico as he passed Sofia near the bar, his eyes wide. “That one,” he nodded toward Cassandra, “she got a guy fired last month because his sleeve brushed her purse.” “I’ll be careful,” Sofia murmured, shifting the tray so her wrist didn’t tremble. She felt sweat prick at her hairline despite the cold air pumped through the vents. She’d started getting dizzy an hour ago, and the baby—God, the baby—had been moving more than usual, as if sensing her exhaustion. “Sofía!” Maribel snapped from across the room. “Table twelve, now. Cross’s circle. Don’t embarrass me.” Sofia swallowed the urge to tell Maribel she was not a machine. She slid toward the inner circle with a tray of flutes filled with pale gold champagne, the bubbles rising like tiny panicked thoughts. The closer she got, the more the noise changed. The guests around Hunter didn’t laugh the way other people laughed; they laughed like they were auditioning for acceptance. Cassandra was perched on a loveseat, surrounded by admirers, and she was telling a story with dramatic hand gestures, her diamond bracelet flashing as if it had its own spotlight. “—and I told the designer, ‘If it doesn’t make me look like a goddess, I’m not wearing it,’” Cassandra said, and the circle erupted into praise. “You are a goddess,” purred a socialite with lips too glossy, leaning in. “You’re saving the city from bad taste,” added a man with a politician’s grin. Cassandra basked in it, then her eyes flicked over the tray approaching, and something in her expression sharpened like a blade finding its angle. Sofia stepped forward, careful, careful, careful, and forced her voice to stay steady. “Champagne, ma’am?” The baby kicked hard, a sudden jab that stole Sofia’s breath. The tray dipped a fraction. Cassandra’s gaze dropped—first to the trembling hand, then to Sofia’s belly. For a heartbeat, Cassandra’s perfect face twitched, not with sympathy but with a kind of disgusted amusement, as if pregnancy were a stain. “Oh,” Cassandra said softly, drawing out the word. “They’re hiring pregnant girls now. How… charitable.” The circle tittered. Sofia felt her cheeks burn, but she kept her eyes lowered. “Please,” she said, “if you’d like—” And then it happened in the worst possible way, like the universe waited for the precise moment her fatigue peaked. Someone behind her brushed her elbow—maybe a guest, maybe a passing server—Sofia never knew, because her body reacted before her brain did. Her wrist jerked. The tray tilted. The flutes slid. Time slowed into a nightmare montage: the glass rims catching light, the liquid shimmering, Cassandra’s dress a river of silver, Sofia’s own breath catching in her throat as she reached for the falling glasses like she could catch a mistake midair. “No—!” she whispered. The first flute hit the marble with a violent crack. Then another. And another. The sound wasn’t just shattering glass; it was the shattering of everything Sofia needed this job to be. Champagne sprayed like cold rain. A wave of pale gold splashed across Cassandra’s gown, soaking the silk, spreading like a bruise. The room went silent so fast it felt like the music had been strangled. Cassandra stared down at herself, at the wet stain blooming over fabric that probably cost more than Sofia’s entire life. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again, and the scream that came out wasn’t loud—it was worse. It was controlled. “You,” Cassandra said, voice low and shaking with rage. “You stupid, clumsy—” She stood so suddenly the circle recoiled, and she raised her hand. For a split second, Sofia saw it: the slap coming, the rings, the humiliation, the shock of impact. Instinct took over. Sofia turned her body, one arm wrapping protectively around her belly, the other hand lifting in a pleading shield. “Please,” she gasped, her voice cracking. “Please don’t hit me… it already hurts.” Her eyes stung, and she hated that she was crying, hated that it would make her look weak to people who lived on weakness like it was dessert. “I’m sorry,” she added, because that was what the poor said when the rich decided to hurt them. Cassandra’s smile spread slowly, cruelly, as if she enjoyed being begged. “Look at you,” Cassandra murmured, leaning in close enough for her perfume to choke. “You’re crying already. I should have you dragged outside. People like you ruin everything.” “Cassandra,” someone said weakly, but it wasn’t a warning; it was a plea not to make the party uncomfortable. Cassandra lifted her chin. “Do you have any idea what this dress is?” she snapped. “Do you have any idea who I am?” Sofia’s knees felt like they might buckle. The baby kicked again, frantic now, and Sofia felt a sharp pinch low in her abdomen that made her suck in a breath. “Please,” she whispered, “I can pay… I can—” Cassandra laughed, a thin sound. “With what? Your pity tips?” Cassandra’s hand was still raised, poised, and the humiliation became a physical thing in the air. Around them, people stared. Some looked entertained, others looked uncomfortable, but no one moved to help. Sofia heard Maribel hiss from somewhere, “Sofía, you’re done, you’re done, you’re going to ruin everything,” and she thought, with a sinking terror, I’m going to lose the money, and then I’m going to lose the room, and then what? Then there was a voice—deep, calm, and so cold it cut through the tension like a knife. “That’s enough.” The words didn’t come from a guest. They came from the top of the room, from the place where power lived. Every head turned in one smooth motion, like a flock responding to a predator. Hunter Cross had started moving. He descended the steps with measured steps, not rushing, not dramatic, just inevitable. His gaze wasn’t on Cassandra’s dress. It wasn’t on the broken glass. It was on Sofia. On her arm around her belly. On the tears she was trying to blink away. And as he got closer, Sofia felt a strange, dizzying sensation, as if the air had shifted, as if the room had tilted toward a secret she didn’t understand. Cassandra’s expression flickered—first relief, as if she assumed her boyfriend would punish the waitress, then something else when she saw Hunter’s face. It wasn’t protective of Cassandra. It was… furious. “Hunter,” Cassandra said quickly, sweetly, flipping her hair like she could reset the moment. “Can you believe this? She ruined—” “I said enough,” Hunter repeated, and the sweetness died in Cassandra’s smile. Sofia’s throat tightened. Hunter stopped right in front of her, close enough that she could see the faint line of tension in his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed as he took in her face. His gaze dropped briefly to her belly, then back to her eyes, and something unspoken passed over his features—recognition, shock, and a pain that looked like he’d been punched. Sofia’s heart slammed into her ribs. No. It couldn’t be. She hadn’t seen him up close before tonight. She’d only heard the name from gossip, seen him from a distance at the staircase, a silhouette made of money and menace. But now—now she saw the small scar near his eyebrow, the exact shape of his mouth, and a memory crashed into her like a wave: a rainy night months ago, a man in a plain hoodie helping her when her car broke down, the way he’d offered her a ride without flashing wealth, the way he’d listened when she said she was tired of being invisible. Back then, he hadn’t been Hunter Cross. He’d been “H,” a stranger with tired eyes and a gentle voice, someone who’d held her hand when she cried about her mother’s medical bills, someone who’d kissed her like she mattered. Sofia’s breath hitched. “No,” she whispered, not meaning to. Hunter’s eyes flickered at the sound, and his voice, when he spoke, was low enough that only she could hear. “Sofía,” he said, like he’d carried her name in his mouth for months and it had burned. Cassandra blinked. “Excuse me?” she snapped, her control slipping. “Hunter, do you know her?” The guests leaned in, hungry. A woman with a phone already raised it, recording. A journalist in a tuxedo, Miles Ketter, smirked in the corner like he’d just been handed a headline. Nico the waiter stared, mouth open. Maribel looked like she might faint. Hunter didn’t take his eyes off Sofia as he answered Cassandra, voice loud enough for the circle. “Yes,” he said. “I know her.” Cassandra’s laugh came out too sharp. “What, did she serve you once? Is that why you’re—” “I know her,” Hunter repeated, and now he turned his gaze to Cassandra, and the temperature in his eyes dropped to ice. “And you will not raise your hand to her.” Cassandra’s face flushed with shock and anger. “She spilled champagne on me!” Cassandra snapped, gesturing at her ruined dress. “She embarrassed me in front of everyone!” Hunter’s lips curved in something that wasn’t a smile. “You’re embarrassed?” he said softly. “Imagine how she feels.” Cassandra stared, as if she couldn’t process that he was speaking like that to her. “Hunter,” she hissed under her breath, “don’t do this to me. Not here.” “Not here?” Hunter echoed, and then he did something that made the room inhale as one: he reached out, not toward Cassandra, but toward Sofia. For a second, Sofia flinched, expecting punishment, but his hand went to her elbow gently, careful not to touch her belly, steadying her as if he could feel her shaking. “Are you in pain?” he asked, his voice suddenly stripped of the billionaire edge and full of the man from the rain. Sofia swallowed hard. “I’m… I’m fine,” she lied automatically, because she’d learned that admitting pain invited dismissal. The sharp pinch in her abdomen returned, stronger, and Sofia’s vision wavered. Hunter’s jaw clenched. “You’re not fine,” he said quietly. Then he looked at Maribel across the room. “Who’s in charge of staff?” Maribel blinked, swallowed, and stepped forward with trembling pride. “I-I am, sir. Maribel. Head waitress.” Hunter’s gaze was a spotlight. “How long has she been working?” Maribel hesitated. “Since… since this morning.” “Twelve hours,” Sofia murmured, and Maribel shot her a murderous look, as if Sofia was supposed to protect the agency’s lies. Hunter’s gaze snapped back to Sofia. “Twelve hours,” he repeated, and his voice dropped into something dangerous. “While pregnant.” Cassandra’s eyes widened. “Oh, don’t start acting like a saint,” Cassandra scoffed, waving a manicured hand. “She chose to work. Nobody forced her.” Hunter turned slowly to Cassandra. “Didn’t they?” he asked, and the question was gentle in tone but brutal in implication. Cassandra’s smile froze. “What are you implying?” Hunter’s gaze flicked to a security guard near the wall—an older man with a stiff posture and an earpiece, named Grant, who had watched everything with the weariness of someone who’d seen too much. “Grant,” Hunter said, and Grant straightened as if he’d been called by God. “Yes, Mr. Cross.” “Bring me the staff schedule,” Hunter ordered. “And tell Dr. Halprin to come here. Now.” The word “doctor” rippled through the guests. Cassandra’s eyes darted. “Hunter,” she said quickly, stepping closer and lowering her voice, “you’re overreacting. She’s fine. I’m the one who got humiliated.” Hunter didn’t look at her. He looked at Sofia’s face again, and his voice softened. “Why are you here?” he asked, as if he didn’t understand how the woman he’d once held in a beat-up car had ended up serving champagne at a palace. Sofia felt her throat tighten with a mix of anger and shame. “Because I need money,” she said, and the honesty tasted bitter. “Because rent doesn’t care if you’re tired. Because clinics don’t do charity just because you’re scared.” Her tears spilled before she could stop them, and she hated the way the guests watched like it was entertainment. Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Oh, please,” she muttered. “Here come the sob stories.” “Cassandra,” Hunter said quietly, and the single word shut her up like a slap. Miles the journalist chuckled under his breath. “This is better than the auction,” he whispered to a woman beside him, and she giggled. Sofia’s humiliation flared into fury. She tried to pull her arm away from Hunter’s hand, but her legs wobbled. Hunter tightened his grip gently, steadying her. “Don’t,” he murmured to her. “Please.” Cassandra’s voice rose again, a sharp crack. “So what, Hunter? You’re going to coddle the help now? In front of everyone?” Hunter finally faced Cassandra fully. The room felt like it leaned in. Cassandra’s eyes flashed. She lifted her chin and played her card like a queen in a bad movie. “If you defend her, you make me look weak,” she said. “You make me look like… like I deserved it.” Hunter’s eyes didn’t blink. “You did,” he said, and Cassandra’s face went pale as if the blood had been drained. A gasp fluttered through the crowd. Cassandra’s lips parted, stunned. “What did you just say?” Hunter’s voice stayed calm, but every word carried weight. “You raised your hand to a pregnant woman who made a mistake. That’s not power. That’s pathetic.” Cassandra’s eyes flashed with humiliation so intense it looked like hate. “You’re humiliating me,” she hissed. “In my—” “In your spotlight,” Hunter corrected, and then he turned to the crowd, his voice rising just enough to carry. “Everyone,” he said, and the room quieted with obedient speed. “This gala is over.” A wave of confusion surged. “But the fundraiser—” someone started. “The auction—” Cassandra’s friend sputtered. Hunter lifted a hand. “The fundraiser will continue,” he said, “without the cruelty.” Then he turned back to Grant, who had returned holding a tablet. “What do you have?” Grant cleared his throat. “Sir… the staff schedule. And… I checked the agency contract like you asked.” Grant glanced at Sofia, then at Cassandra, then back to Hunter. “It shows… a special request was made this morning. Specifically requesting a pregnant waitress.” The room buzzed, shocked. Sofia felt her stomach drop. Maribel’s face twisted in panic. Cassandra’s gaze snapped toward Grant with a flash of fury. “That’s ridiculous,” Cassandra said quickly, too quickly. “Why would anyone—” Hunter’s eyes narrowed. “Why would anyone request a pregnant waitress?” he repeated softly. Sofia’s breath came out shallow. She looked at Maribel, and Maribel’s eyes darted away, guilty. Sofia felt sick. “Maribel,” Hunter said, voice like steel wrapped in velvet, “who made that request?” Maribel’s lips trembled. “I-I don’t know, sir. The agency—” “Stop,” Hunter cut in. “Grant, pull the request. Who signed it?” Grant tapped the tablet, then hesitated. “It’s… it’s under a donor account,” he said, voice strained. “A donor account linked to… Ms. Vale.” Cassandra’s face went rigid. The silence that followed was so heavy it felt like the chandeliers might fall. Sofia stared at Cassandra, understanding dawning like a bruise spreading. Cassandra had wanted her there. Cassandra had wanted a pregnant waitress working twelve hours straight in heels and exhaustion. Why? Cassandra’s eyes snapped around wildly, searching for an exit. Then her expression sharpened into anger. “This is insane,” she snapped. “You’re accusing me of—what? Of setting up a little accident?” She laughed, loud and brittle. “Hunter, don’t be ridiculous. You’re being manipulated by a crying waitress.” Hunter’s eyes flicked to Sofia again, and the pain in them made Sofia’s chest ache. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m being reminded.” Cassandra’s voice cracked. “Reminded of what?” Hunter’s jaw tightened. “Of who you are,” he said, and the words landed like a verdict. Cassandra’s face contorted. “You can’t do this,” she whispered, fear creeping under her anger. “Not in front of them. Hunter, please.” The word “please” sounded foreign in her mouth. Sofia’s abdomen tightened suddenly, a stronger cramp that made her gasp and bend slightly. Hunter’s attention snapped to her instantly. “Sofía,” he said, alarm sharpening his voice. “What’s wrong?” Sofia tried to straighten, to smile it off, but the pain made her vision blur. “It’s… it’s just—” Another cramp. Stronger. Sofia’s fingers dug into her belly protectively. “It hurts,” she admitted, voice shaking. “It really hurts.” Hunter swore under his breath, a raw sound that didn’t belong in the polished room. “Dr. Halprin,” Grant said urgently, and a tall man in a suit pushed through the guests, his face serious. “I’m here,” the doctor said, kneeling slightly near Sofia without touching her. “Ma’am, look at me. Are you bleeding? Are you dizzy?” “Dizzy,” Sofia whispered. “And… cramps.” Cassandra backed away like pregnancy was contagious. “This is so dramatic,” she muttered, but her voice was weaker now, because the crowd’s sympathy had shifted, and Cassandra could feel it. The doctor stood and looked at Hunter. “She needs to sit,” he said. “Now. And she should be taken to the hospital. It could be preterm labor.” The word “labor” hit Sofia like a slap of terror. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Not yet. Please, not yet.” Hunter’s hand came to her shoulder, warm and steady. “Listen to me,” he said, voice low and urgent. “You’re not doing this alone. Okay? You’re not.” Sofia’s eyes burned. “Why?” she choked out. “Why do you care?” Hunter’s throat moved as he swallowed something heavy. “Because I should have cared sooner,” he said, and the words were soft but full of regret. Cassandra’s head snapped up. “What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded, voice rising. Hunter didn’t look at her. He addressed Grant. “Clear a path,” he ordered. “Get my car.” Then he looked at Maribel. “You,” he said, “you’re done. Your agency will never work in this city again.” Maribel gasped. “Sir, please—” “Please?” Hunter’s eyes flashed. “She begged ‘please’ too, and you worked her until she broke.” Maribel’s face crumpled, and for a moment Sofia saw not a villain but a frightened woman trapped in a system that rewarded cruelty. But Sofia couldn’t afford sympathy right now. She could only cling to Hunter’s steadiness as another cramp rolled through her. Cassandra stepped in front of them suddenly, blocking the path like a barricade made of pride. “Hunter,” she said, voice trembling, “you can’t walk out with her. Not like this. Everyone will think—” “Let them think,” Hunter said, and his voice was so cold Cassandra flinched. “Move.” Cassandra’s eyes filled with furious tears. “Is this about that night?” she hissed under her breath, too low for most to hear but not low enough for Sofia, not when she was standing right there. Sofia’s heart lurched. Cassandra knew. Or suspected. Hunter’s eyes darkened. “Move,” he repeated, and Cassandra’s lips curled. “Fine,” she whispered, stepping aside with sudden, dangerous calm. “Go save your little waitress. But don’t forget who I am.” Hunter didn’t answer. He guided Sofia toward the exit, and the crowd parted like a tide, phones up, whispers slicing through the air. “Is he leaving with her?” “That’s Cassandra Vale!” “Did she request the pregnant girl?” “This is insane—” “Hunter Cross is carrying her—” Because that’s what happened next, the moment Sofia’s knees finally buckled under another wave of pain. Hunter caught her without hesitation, sliding an arm under her knees and lifting her as if she weighed nothing, as if all the rules of that room—wealth above all—had been rewritten in a single movement. Sofia clung to his lapel, shaking. “Put me down,” she whispered, humiliated by the stares. “I can walk.” “No,” Hunter said, and his voice was fierce. “Not tonight.” Outside, the cold air hit Sofia’s face, damp with winter and the scent of wet stone. The estate’s driveway glowed with lanterns, and Hunter’s black car slid up as if summoned by will alone. Grant opened the door. “Hospital,” Hunter snapped. “Now.” As Hunter climbed in with Sofia, she caught one last glimpse through the estate’s glass doors: Cassandra standing frozen in her ruined dress, her face twisted between fury and fear, and Miles Ketter already on his phone, already leaking the story to every outlet he could. Sofia’s stomach tightened with dread. “This is going to destroy me,” Sofia whispered, imagining the internet tearing her apart, calling her a gold digger, a homewrecker, a pity play. Hunter’s gaze snapped to hers. “No,” he said. “This is going to expose them.” The car sped into the night, the city lights smearing like tears across the window. Sofia tried to breathe through the cramps the way the prenatal class video had taught her, but fear made her breaths shallow. Hunter’s hand held hers, firm. “Tell me the truth,” he said quietly. “Is the baby… is it mine?” Sofia’s chest tightened like a fist had closed around her heart. She stared at him, at the man who had once been “H,” the stranger who’d held her hand in the rain, who had kissed her in the backseat of a cheap car like she was the only real thing in the world. “You don’t get to ask that now,” Sofia whispered, voice shaking with hurt. “You disappeared.” Hunter’s eyes flinched, and for the first time, the billionaire mask cracked, revealing exhaustion and something like self-loathing. “I didn’t disappear,” he said. “I was pulled. It’s complicated.” Sofia laughed bitterly, then winced as pain stabbed again. “Everything is complicated when you have money,” she spat softly. “For me, it was simple. I woke up and you were gone. No name. No number. Just… nothing.” Hunter’s jaw worked. “I left because someone was trying to find you,” he said, and Sofia blinked, confused. “Find me?” “That night,” Hunter said, voice tight, “I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was supposed to be at a meeting. I left because I couldn’t breathe in my own life anymore. I drove until the rain swallowed the road, and then I saw you on the shoulder, shaking, and you looked at me like I was just… a person. Not a title.” Sofia’s throat tightened despite herself. “I was just desperate,” she whispered. “And you were kind.” Hunter swallowed. “I gave you a fake name because I didn’t want you to know who I was,” he admitted. “And then, the next morning, my security team tracked my car, and my mother’s people—my board—my enemies—everyone. They realized I’d been alone. Vulnerable. They started asking questions. There were threats. I was told if anyone found you, they’d use you.” Sofia’s eyes widened. “So you left to protect me,” she said, disbelief mixed with anger. “By abandoning me.” “I tried to find you,” Hunter said quickly. “I went back that night. I went back the next day. You were gone.” Sofia looked away, her voice raw. “I was ashamed. I thought you used me. I moved. I changed numbers. I told myself you weren’t real.” Another cramp. Sofia groaned, clutching her belly. Hunter leaned forward. “We’re almost there,” he said, voice urgent. “Please, just—hold on.” At the hospital, everything became bright and clinical and terrifying. Nurses rushed Sofia onto a gurney. Hunter strode alongside, barking her name to keep her focused, arguing with staff until someone recognized him and suddenly doors opened faster. “Ma’am,” a nurse said gently, “we’re going to check the baby.” Sofia’s hands shook. “Please,” she whispered, “please be okay.” Hunter stood at the edge of the curtain, looking like a man who had faced hostile boardrooms and threats and legal wars but had never looked more helpless. A nurse tried to push him back. “Sir, you need to wait—” “I’m not leaving,” Hunter said, voice dangerous. Sofia turned her head and met his eyes. “Stay,” she whispered, and Hunter’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Yes,” he said. “I’m here.” As the doctor examined her, Sofia caught snippets: “contractions,” “cervix,” “stress can trigger,” “we’ll try to stop labor,” and she squeezed Hunter’s hand so hard she thought she might break it. Hours blurred. At some point, a nurse offered Sofia ice chips, and she realized she was sobbing silently, exhausted beyond anything. Hunter’s phone buzzed constantly, but he ignored it until Grant’s name flashed and he finally answered, stepping a few feet away. Sofia heard only fragments: “Yes,” Hunter snapped, “I don’t care,” “keep her away,” “no interviews,” “freeze her accounts if she tries anything,” and Sofia’s stomach sank. Cassandra. The gala. The scandal. When Hunter returned, his face was hard. “She’s already trying to spin it,” he said quietly, sitting beside Sofia. “Cassandra’s team is calling you a con artist. They’re claiming you targeted me.” Sofia’s eyes filled with furious tears. “Of course they are,” she whispered. “That’s what people like her do.” Hunter’s gaze was steady. “I won’t let them,” he said. “Not after tonight.” Sofia’s voice cracked. “Why are you with her?” Hunter’s mouth tightened. “Because she’s useful,” he admitted, and Sofia recoiled as if he’d slapped her. Hunter winced. “Not like that,” he said quickly. “Cassandra’s father controls a block of shares. The relationship was… an arrangement. She wanted status. I wanted stability. I thought I could keep it clean.” Sofia laughed weakly through pain. “Clean,” she echoed. “While she requests a pregnant waitress to humiliate.” Hunter’s eyes darkened. “I didn’t know she was capable of that,” he said, then corrected himself with bitter honesty. “No. That’s a lie. I knew she was cruel. I just told myself it wouldn’t reach someone innocent.” He looked at Sofia’s belly, then back to her face. “I was wrong.” A nurse came in with a serious expression. “We managed to slow the contractions,” she said. “But she needs rest. No stress. And she can’t go back to working twelve-hour shifts.” Sofia’s eyes closed in relief so intense it felt like grief. “Thank you,” she whispered. When the nurse left, Sofia stared at the ceiling, suddenly numb. “I can’t afford rest,” she said, voice hollow. “That’s the truth.” Hunter’s hand tightened around hers. “You can,” he said. “Because I will.” Sofia turned her head sharply. “No,” she said, immediate and fierce. “I won’t be your charity case.” Hunter’s eyes flashed. “It’s not charity,” he said. “It’s responsibility.” Sofia’s throat tightened. “You don’t even know if—” “I know,” Hunter cut in, and his voice shook for the first time. “I know that night wasn’t nothing. I know you’re not someone who would trap a man just for money. I know you’re terrified. And I know that baby deserves better than a mother collapsing at a party because some woman wanted entertainment.” Sofia stared at him, emotions colliding—anger, longing, fear, pride. “You think you can just… step in now?” she whispered. Hunter’s gaze didn’t waver. “No,” he said. “I know I can’t erase what I did. But I can start.” The door opened then, and a woman swept in like she owned the building, her hair silver and perfect, her eyes sharp as knives. Sofia recognized her from news clips: Evelyn Cross, Hunter’s mother, the woman rumored to run half the city through philanthropy and pressure. Two men in suits hovered behind her. Hunter rose instantly, tension stiffening him. “Mother,” he said flatly. Evelyn’s gaze flicked over Sofia with cool appraisal. “So this is her,” Evelyn said, not unkind but not warm either—like Sofia was a problem being measured. Sofia tried to sit up, self-conscious of her hospital gown and swollen belly. Hunter stepped between them subtly. “She’s resting,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here.” Evelyn’s lips curved. “I shouldn’t be here,” she repeated softly, then looked at him with a gaze that could slice. “Hunter, the city is on fire. Cassandra’s father is threatening legal action. The press is outside. Your board is calling emergency meetings.” Hunter’s voice was cold. “Let them.” Evelyn’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to ‘let them’,” she said. “You built an empire on precision. Not impulse.” Hunter’s jaw clenched. “This isn’t impulse,” he snapped. “This is… correction.” Evelyn’s gaze flicked to Sofia again, this time lingering on her belly. “Is the baby yours?” Evelyn asked, blunt as a scalpel. Sofia’s cheeks burned. Hunter answered before Sofia could. “I believe so,” he said. Evelyn inhaled slowly, and for a moment, something like genuine emotion crossed her face—shock, maybe, or fear. “Believe,” Evelyn repeated. “So you don’t know.” Hunter’s voice lowered. “We’ll do whatever tests you need. But she’s not being treated like a scandal.” Evelyn’s eyes hardened again. “Everything is a scandal if you let it be,” she said, then looked at Sofia, and her voice shifted into something almost gentle. “Sofia, is it? I’m told you begged Cassandra not to hit you.” Sofia swallowed. “Yes,” she whispered. Evelyn nodded once. “You should never have had to beg,” she said, and it startled Sofia, because she’d expected condemnation, not that. Evelyn turned to Hunter. “Get her out of that job,” Evelyn said sharply. “Immediately. And for the love of God, stop letting Cassandra pretend she’s untouchable.” Hunter’s eyes widened a fraction. “You’re not… angry?” Evelyn’s lips pressed together. “I’m furious,” she said. “But not at her.” She nodded toward Sofia. “I’m furious at you.” Hunter flinched. Evelyn’s voice softened just a little. “You were given power. And you let cruelty happen under your roof.” Hunter’s shoulders dropped, the rebuke landing deep. Evelyn exhaled and looked at Sofia again. “If you want to disappear from this mess, I can make that happen,” Evelyn said. “A safe apartment. Medical care. A new start. No cameras.” Sofia’s heart hammered. A part of her wanted to say yes immediately, to grab safety with both hands. But another part—a stubborn core—refused to become someone else’s secret. “I don’t want to disappear,” Sofia said, voice trembling but steady. “I want my life. I want my baby to be safe. And I want… I want them to stop treating people like me like we’re disposable.” Evelyn studied her, then nodded slowly, as if that answer earned something. “Good,” Evelyn said. “Because if you run, they’ll rewrite you. If you stay, you can speak.” Hunter looked between them, something like relief loosening his chest. “I’ll handle it,” Hunter said, voice firm. “All of it.” Evelyn’s eyes narrowed. “You’d better,” she said, then turned and left as abruptly as she’d arrived, her men trailing behind her like shadows. When the door closed, the room felt quieter, but the tension remained. Sofia looked at Hunter. “Your mother offered to hide me,” she said softly. Hunter’s gaze held hers. “I won’t hide you,” he said. “Unless you want it.” Sofia’s eyes filled. “I don’t know what I want,” she admitted. “I just know I’m tired of being punished for existing.” Hunter’s voice was gentle. “Then let me take the punishment,” he said. “For once.” The next morning, the story exploded. Screens in the hospital lobby flashed headlines, and even without reading them Sofia could feel the narrative trying to devour her: BILLIONAIRE DUMPS FIANCÉE FOR PREGNANT WAITRESS, PARTY MELTDOWN AT CROSS ESTATE, WHO IS SOFIA? Nurses whispered. A man in a hoodie tried to sneak photos before security removed him. Grant stood outside Sofia’s door like a human wall. Hunter sat beside her bed, his suit jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled up, looking like a man who hadn’t slept. “They’re outside,” Sofia whispered. “They’re going to tear me apart.” Hunter’s eyes were dark with exhaustion. “Let them try,” he said. “I’m done letting people like Cassandra weaponize silence.” Sofia blinked. “What are you going to do?” Hunter’s jaw clenched. “I’m going to tell the truth,” he said. Sofia’s breath caught. “About us?” she whispered. Hunter nodded once. “About the gala,” he corrected. “About the request. About Cassandra. About the way this city treats working people like props.” Sofia’s throat tightened. “They’ll come for you,” she whispered. Hunter’s lips curved in a grim smile. “They already have,” he said. “I’ve just been too busy playing polite.” Hours later, Hunter walked out of the hospital with Grant at his side and a small army of security, not hiding, not sneaking, and the cameras went wild. Sofia watched on the TV as he stood at the entrance, flashes exploding like lightning, reporters shouting questions. Miles Ketter pushed forward, microphone out. “Mr. Cross! Did you have an affair? Is the waitress your mistress? Did Cassandra assault her?” Hunter lifted a hand, and the crowd quieted slightly, hungry. “Last night,” Hunter said into the microphones, voice steady, “a pregnant employee at my event was overworked, humiliated, and threatened with violence because she made an accident while exhausted. That should never happen in any home, especially not mine.” Murmurs. Hunter continued, voice sharpening. “We have evidence that my… former partner, Cassandra Vale, used a donor account to request a pregnant waitress for this event. That request was not accidental. It was cruel, and it will be investigated.” The crowd erupted. “Former partner?” someone yelled. “Are you breaking up?” “Is she your baby mama?” another shouted. Hunter’s eyes didn’t flinch. “Cassandra Vale is no longer welcome in my life or in my home,” Hunter said. “And as of today, every staffing agency that works with Cross Enterprises will be required to enforce humane shift limits and protections for pregnant employees. Anyone who violates that will be terminated.” Reporters shouted louder. Hunter raised his voice slightly. “As for Sofia,” he said, and Sofia’s heart stopped at hearing her name spoken by him publicly, “she is a human being who deserves privacy and respect. If you harass her, you will be prosecuted.” Miles Ketter’s eyes glittered. “And the baby?” he pressed. Hunter’s jaw tightened, and for a moment the mask slipped, revealing something raw. “The baby,” Hunter said, “will be cared for. Fully.” He didn’t claim paternity on camera—not yet—but the way he spoke made the world understand what mattered. The press conference didn’t end the storm; it fed it. Cassandra retaliated within hours. On social media, she posted tearful videos claiming she’d been betrayed, that Hunter had been “manipulated,” that Sofia was a “professional victim.” A slick lawyer appeared on a talk show, implying Sofia had staged the fall, implying she’d been paid. Sofia watched it from her hospital bed, nauseated with rage and fear. “They’re calling me a liar,” Sofia whispered, voice breaking. Hunter sat beside her, his hand covering hers. “Then we show the receipts,” he said. He made one call. Within an hour, Grant returned with a small box. “Found this in the staff room,” Grant said, placing it on the table. “It was tucked behind the lockers. A burner phone.” Sofia stared. “Why would—” “Because someone wanted proof,” Hunter said, eyes hard. He opened the box, pulled out the phone, and turned it on. Messages loaded. Sofia saw Cassandra’s name in the threads like poison. Instructions. “Make her carry extra trays.” “Keep her near me.” “If she cries, film it.” “I want her to beg.” Sofia’s stomach turned. “She wanted me to beg,” Sofia whispered, horror rising. Hunter’s face was stone. “And she wanted footage,” he said. Grant scrolled further. A message appeared from Maribel to Cassandra: “She’s getting dizzy but I’ll keep her on.” Sofia’s vision blurred with tears. “Maribel,” she whispered, betrayed. Hunter’s voice was low. “We’ll handle Maribel,” he said. “But Cassandra…” He exhaled slowly. “Cassandra just signed her own sentence.” When the screenshots went public—sanitized for privacy but brutal enough to expose intent—the narrative shifted. The same internet that had mocked Sofia turned on Cassandra with the hunger of a crowd that loved a villain more than a victim. Sponsors pulled away. Cassandra’s friends vanished like smoke. Cassandra’s father tried to intervene, threatening lawsuits, but the evidence made it messy. Still, Cassandra wasn’t finished. Two nights later, when Sofia was finally discharged and moved—at her insistence—not into a Cross mansion but into a modest, secure apartment in a quiet building, Sofia woke to the sound of pounding at her door. Her heart leapt into her throat. Grant’s voice came through the intercom. “Ms. Sofia, stay back. Do not open.” Sofia’s hands shook as she backed away, clutching her belly. Through the peephole, she saw a woman with a hood pulled low, hair gleaming silver under the hall light, her posture rigid with fury. Cassandra. “Open the door,” Cassandra’s voice hissed, low and venomous. “I just want to talk.” Grant stepped into view, blocking her. “You need to leave,” Grant said, calm but firm. Cassandra laughed softly. “You’re his dog,” she sneered. “Tell your master I’m not done.” Sofia’s phone buzzed on the table. Hunter’s name. Sofia answered with trembling fingers. “She’s here,” Sofia whispered. Hunter’s voice turned instantly cold. “Lock the door. Grant is there?” “Yes.” “Good,” Hunter said. “I’m coming.” Cassandra’s voice rose outside, slipping into theatrics. “Sofía!” she called loudly, making sure neighbors would hear. “You won, okay? You got your little fairytale. But don’t think you can steal my life and walk away.” Sofia’s breath shook. She pressed a hand to her belly. “Don’t listen,” Hunter said through the phone. “You hear me? Don’t listen.” Grant’s voice stayed steady outside. “Ms. Vale, last warning.” Cassandra’s laughter turned sharp. “Last warning?” she mocked. “I used to get invited into rooms you can’t even pronounce.” Then her voice dropped into something darker. “Tell her,” Cassandra hissed, “tell her that men like Hunter don’t love. They purchase. When he gets bored, he’ll throw her away. And she’ll be alone with a baby and a ruined name.” Sofia’s eyes filled with tears—not because she believed Cassandra, but because Cassandra’s cruelty knew exactly where to aim. Before Sofia could respond, the elevator dinged. Footsteps. The hallway filled with a new energy. Hunter appeared, not in a suit but in a dark coat, his face grim, Grant stepping aside respectfully. Cassandra’s head snapped up, her eyes blazing. “Hunter,” she spat, all softness gone. “So you came.” Hunter’s voice was quiet. “Leave,” he said. Cassandra’s laugh trembled. “I did everything for you,” she snapped, mascara gleaming under the hall light. “I built you an image. I protected your reputation. And you throw me away for—” She gestured wildly at Sofia’s door. “For a nobody!” Hunter stepped closer, and even through the door Sofia felt the force of his presence. “You didn’t protect me,” Hunter said, voice like ice. “You protected your access.” Cassandra’s breath hitched. “You’re making a mistake,” she whispered. “She’ll ruin you.” Hunter’s expression didn’t change. “You already tried,” he said. “And you failed.” Cassandra’s eyes flickered with something like panic as she realized the hallway was not her stage anymore. “This isn’t over,” she whispered, then turned sharply and stormed toward the elevator, her heels striking like gunshots. When she was gone, the hall fell quiet. Sofia’s knees weakened. Hunter knocked gently. “Sofía,” he called softly. “It’s me.” Her throat tightened. She opened the door just a crack, and the moment she saw him—really saw him, standing there with exhaustion etched into his face—something inside her broke. She burst into tears, not pretty, not graceful, just raw. Hunter stepped inside and closed the door behind him, then hesitated, as if asking permission without words. Sofia nodded, and he wrapped his arms around her carefully, holding her like she was fragile not because she was weak but because he finally understood what she’d been carrying alone. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I didn’t find you. I’m sorry you had to beg anyone for mercy.” Sofia clutched his coat, trembling. “I didn’t want to be seen,” she sobbed. “I just wanted to work and leave. I didn’t want to be a headline.” Hunter’s voice was steady. “Then we’ll make you more than a headline,” he said. “We’ll make you a person again.” Sofia pulled back slightly, wiping her face with shaking hands. “What does that even mean?” she whispered. Hunter swallowed, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small folded paper. “I got a paternity test order,” he said quietly. “We can do it when you’re ready. Not for the cameras. For you. For the baby.” Sofia stared at the paper, then at him. “And if it’s yours?” she asked, voice small. Hunter’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then I’ll be there,” he said. “Not as a check. Not as a press statement. As a father.” Sofia’s breath shook. “And if it’s not?” she asked, because fear demanded the question. Hunter’s expression softened. “Then I’ll still make sure you’re safe,” he said. “And I’ll still take responsibility for what happened in my house.” Sofia’s eyes burned with tears again, but this time they weren’t only fear; they were relief laced with grief for all the nights she’d spent thinking she didn’t matter. She sank onto the couch, one hand on her belly, breathing carefully. Hunter crouched in front of her, lowering himself so he wasn’t towering. “Tell me what you need,” he said. “Right now.” Sofia stared at him for a long moment, then whispered, “Sleep. Quiet. And… I need to know I’m not crazy for thinking that night mattered.” Hunter’s eyes glistened faintly. “You’re not crazy,” he said. “It mattered to me too. That’s why I’ve been miserable since.” Sofia blinked, surprised. Hunter’s voice was low. “I tried to drown it in work,” he admitted. “I tried to pretend Cassandra’s world was enough. But I kept remembering you—your laugh, your anger, the way you looked at me like I wasn’t a monster. I told myself I was protecting you by staying away. But I was protecting myself from needing you.” Sofia’s chest tightened. “And now?” she whispered. Hunter exhaled. “Now I’m tired of being a coward,” he said. Weeks passed with the slow tension of rebuilding. Sofia attended prenatal appointments without worrying about cost. Hunter didn’t hover like a savior in a movie; instead, he showed up in small ways that mattered—bringing groceries when Sofia was too tired, sitting quietly during ultrasound appointments, listening when Sofia talked about her fears without trying to fix them immediately. Nico, the young waiter from the gala, visited once with a bouquet of cheap flowers and a sheepish smile. “I just… I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve said something that night.” Sofia smiled sadly. “You did what you could,” she told him, and Nico nodded, eyes shiny. Maribel was fired and later came to Sofia privately, crying, confessing that Cassandra had promised her money if she “kept the pregnant girl on until she cracked.” Sofia listened, anger sharp, but when Maribel apologized, Sofia said quietly, “You didn’t crack me. You revealed them.” Maribel left, ashamed, and Sofia felt the strange empowerment of realizing pain could become proof. The paternity test came back on a rainy Tuesday, the kind of day that made Sofia remember the first night with “H.” Hunter sat across from her at the kitchen table, the envelope between them like a bomb. Sofia’s fingers trembled as she opened it. She read the words, and the room went silent. Hunter’s breath stopped. Sofia looked up, eyes wide and wet. “It’s yours,” she whispered. Hunter’s face crumpled in a way Sofia hadn’t expected; the billionaire who never cracked looked suddenly like a man drowning in emotion. He stood so fast the chair scraped. He paced once, then dropped to his knees in front of Sofia, hands hovering near her belly like he didn’t deserve to touch. “Say it again,” he whispered, voice breaking. Sofia let out a shaky laugh through tears. “It’s yours,” she repeated. Hunter’s eyes filled. “Hi,” he whispered to Sofia’s belly, voice trembling. “I’m… I’m your dad. I’m late. But I’m here.” Sofia sobbed, and Hunter pressed his forehead gently against her belly, careful, reverent, as if he was praying. “I won’t fail you,” he whispered. “I won’t fail either of you.” The final confrontation with Cassandra didn’t come with fists or slaps; it came with a courtroom and cameras and the cold unraveling of power. Cassandra tried to sue for defamation, tried to spin herself as a woman wronged, but the burner phone messages, the donor request, the staff testimonies, and the security footage of her raised hand built a story she couldn’t edit. In the end, Cassandra didn’t go to jail—wealth often slithered out of cages—but she lost what mattered most to her: access. Her accounts were frozen during litigation. Her brand deals evaporated. Her invitations stopped. The queen of the city’s parties became a ghost in her own kingdom. The night Sofia went into labor for real, months later, it wasn’t under chandeliers; it was under fluorescent lights with Hunter holding her hand so tightly she thought her fingers might bruise. “You’re doing it,” he whispered, tears on his cheeks he didn’t bother to hide. Sofia gritted her teeth, sweating, furious and powerful all at once. “You better not faint,” she panted. Hunter laughed, half-sobbing. “I won’t,” he promised. “I swear I won’t.” When the baby finally cried—a sharp, angry sound that felt like a victory—Sofia collapsed back, sobbing with relief. A nurse placed the tiny, wrinkled miracle on her chest, and Sofia stared at the face she’d been fighting for. Hunter hovered, trembling, then the nurse handed the baby to him, and for a moment the billionaire looked terrified. “Support the head,” the nurse instructed gently. Hunter obeyed like it was the most important deal he’d ever made. He looked down at his child, his voice shaking. “You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re really real.” Sofia watched him, exhausted and full, and something in her chest loosened—years of survival unclenching into something like hope. Later, when the hospital room quieted and the city outside kept spinning, Hunter sat beside Sofia’s bed, their newborn sleeping between them, and he spoke softly, not as a man making promises for show but as a man building a new life brick by brick. “I can’t undo what happened,” he said. “I can’t erase the night you begged not to be hit. But I can make sure our child grows up in a world where that kind of cruelty gets stopped the first time it shows its face.” Sofia’s eyes burned, and she nodded slowly. “Then start,” she whispered. Hunter took her hand, pressed it to his lips, and looked at her with a steadiness that felt earned, not owned. “I already did,” he said. And in that quiet room, with a baby breathing softly like a tiny promise, Sofia realized the twist of her life hadn’t been that a billionaire saved her at a party; it was that she finally stopped shrinking for people who wanted her small, and the most powerful man in the city learned—too late for perfection but not too late for change—that real power wasn’t making people fear you, it was making sure no one ever had to beg for mercy again.